


Westeros' Unwanted Children

by Ketch117



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF Rarepair Week 2018, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-05-27 17:23:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15029498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ketch117/pseuds/Ketch117
Summary: February 24Ashes // Snowflakes





	1. Fake Dating/“They’re coming- kiss me!”

**Author's Note:**

> My experimentation with the rarepair drabbles, and trying to produce a written chapter in a single day.

As she approached, the throbbing pulse of music reached her ears. Somewhat inauspiciously, a heavily synthesised remix of Chuck Berry's 'You Never Can Tell'.

Her brother Oberyn's nightclub was located in a basement down a poorly lit side street popular with prostitutes and junkies. It was a dingy, shabby hole, sweaty and cramped, painted an unfortunate shade of yellow that always put her in mind of over-ripe bananas and stinking of sour cigarettes and stale booze, or was it the other way around? That it was able to survive was testament to the combined pulling power of Oberyn's top-shelf alcohol, legendary for it's potency among bohemian alcoholics, and the still more legendary floorshows that unfolded on the mirrored stage behind the tiny dance floor, that truly defied description. In fact, together these proved such a draw that the club was sold out every night, and - given the cheapness of the rent for obvious reasons - should therefore have been wildly in profit, but so much cash went into bribing the police and, when that was unsuccessful, fighting court orders and reapplying for licenses that it barely covered costs. Oberyn claimed to keep it open for the art - and it might be true, he certainly didn't need the money, but his sister privately suspected it was either an extremely clever way of laundering money, or it's main purpose was in acquiring blackmail material. Perhaps both.

It was early when she got there, not even fully dark yet, but the queue was already beginning to tail back along the street. Elia considered herself to be a worldly sort of girl, but she didn’t know anyone who wouldn’t have felt out of place there - women dressed like Warhol-era New York prostitutes, sharp-suited, sharper-coiffured men in eyeliner waiting in multi-sexual combinations of pairs and threesomes, but she did her best not to pay it any mind. She knew that the line you saw out the door was rarely an indication of how many people were inside. An empty club could have a line of people waiting to get in, to give the right image. Ignoring them all, she walked straight to the front of the queue, where two cold, bored, actual eunuchs, sinewy rough-and-tumble motherfuckers that her brother had acquired from God-Knows-Where (that must have been a hell of a job interview) stood, wearing actual leopard-skins in lieu of clothing to show off their wiry physiques. They were holding clipboards, and were sorting through the crowd and turning away the insufficiently hip.

The larger of the two, shaved entirely hairless even to the eyebrows and dark skinned in an ambiguous way that could suggest all a manner of ethnicities moved to intercept her with a bored swagger. Elia had never seen him before in her life, at least she was fairly certain, but he obviously recognised her, since he smiled warmly instead, leaning over to undo the chain fence to let her through. “Oberyn said you'd be around. He's waiting for you."

“What the hell?” one of the girls near the front of the line complained, “We’ve been waiting for forty five minutes and you let that slut through like that?”

“Out of the line,” the doorman said, his voice bored.

“The hell? Why?”

“She's a VIP. Out of the line. You and your friends are banned indefinitely." Having said all he intended to, at least to her, he stepped aside to give Elia space to enter.

The girl was obviously too young to know to cut her losses. Elia could hear her still protesting as she walked through the doors.

The music was a great deal louder inside. It was too early in the night for much in the way of character, the people inside were mostly relaxing, drinking, and sneering at people not as cool as them.

"Welcome back to the country. ” Oberyn grinned, emerging from the VIP rooms and ambling over with a long, rolling step. Her brother was always making something of a spectacle himself, he couldn’t help it, and here, where there was nobody to rein him in or exert control over him he was playing it up more than ever. He was wearing leather pants that probably stood in violation of public decency laws, and no shirt. Some of the tattoos looked new. She was almost certain the nipple piercing was. He’d grown his hair out, so that it was just brushing his shoulders, and he’d regrown his beard. “Taking a break from fighting the good fight?”

“I’m only here for a week. I don’t know if that counts as a break. And I don’t know that what I do counts as the Good Fight.”

“Well, it’s making the world better for the common man - even if there is no medals in it. And even if you work too hard anyway, and it keeps you out of the country.” Oberyn said. “When exactly did you get here?”

“My flight touched down an hour ago. I got an Uber here.”

“And you came to visit me first? You’ll break our dearest brothers heart with this blatant display of your preference.” He paused. “Where are your bags?”

“I didn’t pack any.”

Oberyn’s grin widened. “And Doran complains I am too spontaneous.” He shook his head. “Well, that simply won’t do. Not at all. You and I will have to purchase a new wardrobe for you while you are here.”

Elia had been expecting that, so she only shrugged. “This is why I didn’t pack, you know. You’d make me do this anyway.”

“Of course! Sister dearest, I count it as a gift, the trust and faith in me you display by trusting me to take care of you.” Oberyn replied, giving her his most charming smile. “When I’m done, you’ll turn every head in New York. Where are you staying?”

“One of Doran’s spare rooms. And you’re taking me there - I’ll rent a car tomorrow.”

“Not so fast. We’ve got to catch up a bit first.”

“Well, of course. Why bother showing up to a wedding, except to catch up with all the people you’re to busy to see? I want to hear everything.”

The VIP rooms were actually very comfortable, despite the fact that every smooth surface seemed to be dedicated to a smorgasbord of substances to snort, swallow or inject. And the highly conspicuous biohazard bins by the door and couches to dispose of syringes. By Oberyn's standards, that was very responsible.

Her brother mixed her a drink that she didn’t try to identify, she just poured into her for the sake of being a good sport, then sent him off to get something more her speed. He returned with a glass and the entire bottle, obviously feeling it would save time in the long run. She glanced at the label and nodded approvingly, then poured herself a glass. She took only a small sip - she was hesitant to disrespect such a great bottle of wine by using it to get trashed. “You spoil me.”

“When I can get away with it. So, what’s happening in your life?”

“More of the same. I'm fighting against international corporate hegemonies, which you are not only not interested in talking about, if I try to you will change the subject. Rhaenys is studying international law in Scandinavia, and Aegon is somewhere in South America. And you’re doing…”

“Oh, a little here, a little there.” He replied, evasive as he always was. “Some of it’s legal, but those bits are so dreadfully dull that hearing about it would bore you terribly. Filing, mostly.” He crossed his legs. “But surely there is more to life in Brussels than work.”

“Well, there is a positively decadent expenses account, and plenty of exquisite champagne and truffles to use it on.” She winked. “I’ve put on, what, twenty pounds there? Two kids and I never gained an ounce, but all that food… I’ll be starting to waddle soon, can you imagine?”

Oberyn swallowed. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Liar.” She replied with a wink. "I'm up a whole size. And lighten up. Someone as throughly debauched as yourself shouldn't be so easy to embarrass."

“Have you found a man, between champagne dinners?”

“I anticipated you were working your way to that. I even held off asking about my old friends to give you the chance. Still, I expected more candor.”

“Well, I…”

“The answer is no, Oberyn. No, I haven’t met anyone who excites me - not that I need any excitement, and so I am entirely free. My kids have grown up, they have their own lives, and I’m not afraid to be alone.”

“You’re wasted alone.”

“I never said I was alone. Just that I am not afraid of it, and that anyway, I haven’t found anyone new." Sex had been sporadic at best, and more often than not she found herself entirely doing without. Which was a shame, because she loved the idea of sex, but hardly dedicated any effort to actively pursuing it. "I haven’t been in more than the occasional date in nearly two decades. I was pretty hot property back then, as I recall, but we’d only just discovered texting in those days.”

“It’s not actually all that different, now.”

"Oh now? What about all of the sexting and the snapping and the swiping right Rhaenys seems so taken with. Or is it left? I admit I don’t have any idea.”

“There’s no great mystery to online dating, sweet sister. It’s just like chatting someone up in a bar, only over email and with the guarantee that they’re on the prowl as well.”

“Where does the swiping come in?”

“No swiping.”

“Are you trying to take all the fun out of this? That's not like you at all, brother. Is your nerve failing as you get older?”

Oberyn was much to irrepressible to let something like that take the wind out of his sails. “Maybe we’ll work up to that. But the problem is not how you go about it. The problem is that you’ve got no taste in men.”

“Well no. Of course, neither do you.”

“Granted, but for entirely different reasons. Your problem is that, on some unconscious level, you feel the need to be with a partner who is utterly destructive. To themselves, and to your life.”

“I'll admit that has happened a time or two" She briefly thought about Simon Toyne, who for most people would be the boyfriend they most regretted. They'd met in college, and she had been taken by surprise when he was injured in a shoot-out with the National Guard and was now serving simultaneous life sentences for domestic terrorism, then considered Rhaegar Targaryen, who'd seemed perfect right up until he left her for a teenager one night without a word, and then skipped out on his bail and fled the country ahead of prosecution. Apparently he was now living somewhere alongside the french riviera, toying with collecting art and trading mistresses with the other ageing bon vivants. "Are you working up to something? Because if so, I’m afraid I don’t follow. Just have at it, will you?”

Oberyn smiled. “Well, you can't show up at your niece’s wedding unescorted. That simply will not do."

"Agreed." Elia replied.

"Fortunately I anticipated this, and as it happens I have already alighted on a solution.”

She looked at him, her expression set in some strange expression caught somewhere between disappointment or amusement. “Are you trying to set me up with one of your exes?”

Oberyn looked offended. “As if I want any of my exes anywhere near my family. Particularly you, sweet sister. If they couldn’t handle me, you’d eat them alive. No, I have the perfect man for you. Handsome, reliable, just dangerous enough to be interesting…”

Her eyebrows went up, but he knew his sister well enough to know he’d intrigued her. “Really?”

“And that’s the best bit. I know you’ll like him, since you already do!”

 

\+ + + + +

 

These days, the crossword was the only part of the paper that Arthur Dayne devoted more than a few minutes to. In the past, he would read the front part of the New York Times from top to bottom and form an opinion - almost always negative - about every last item, including the opinion pieces, the sponsored content and the letters. He'd stopped doing that a few years back when filling his empty hours had stopped seeming so important, and what a load-off it had turned out to be! It had happened one Sunday Morning, shortly after the paper had arrived on his doorstep. The local and International News, Business, Sports, Art & Leisure, Review, Agenda, five sections of classifieds, and he'd put it aside.

So it made a change to be reading a paper again - if more out of a desire to occupy himself while he waited to discover the favor Oberyn was asking for him. It didn't occupy him the way it had used to - he didn't know if that meant he was changing, or the way that the News was reported was changing, but given the world didn't seem to change as much as everyone thought it did he assumed it was the former. General opinion, judging by the microcosm of it deemed newsworthy, didn't seem too important, anyway.

He'd ordered himself lunch while he waited, but it had yet to arrive. The coffee had, but he'd drunk it by now, and was beginning to regret that he'd not ordered a second cup. Looking up from the paper, which he was mostly only holding as a prop anyway, he blinked when he realized that she'd arrived. He recognized her, of course, even though they hadn't seen each other in years. But it still took him by momentary surprise when he noticed just who was wearing the red orchid in her dark hair - the agreed identification (obviously Oberyn had watched too many spy-movies) enough that he's already folded the paper and placed it aside when she sits across from him.

"Well. Now I'm wondering if Ashara put Oberyn up to this, or the conspiracy goes deeper yet.” She said, with her bright smile, her dimples and her sparkling eyes. Arthur Dayne thought a man would have to be made of stone not to smile back. There was something about Elia, something that kept you thinking of her to the expense of conventional beauty.

“Honestly, I was halfway ready to ask you the same. Before that, I wondered if this was some sort of elaborate set-up.”

"Well, I never doubted that you were innocent - at least in regards to scheming up this. It's lovely to see you Arthur."

"You too." He replied automatically, but scrupulously honestly. "I had no idea you were back in the country."

"I'm not, really. Not for another six months. Maybe longer. Honestly, these days I always seem to be busy."

"You thrive on it."

"Well, thrive might be too strong a word. How about yourself? I hear they have you training special forces recruits somewhere classified?"

"They don't know what else to do with me. In all honesty, I'm bored out of my mind, but I haven't dared tell anyone."

"Afraid you'll embarrass them?"

"Aware that complaining about boredom isn't something anybody can do in my position - anyone gets a whisper of dissatisfaction from you, and the superiors will worry about cracking up or an addiction to risk and force you to undertake psychiatric evaluation. Or worse." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "I'll put up with it a bit longer. Who knows, maybe get a discharge, try and give civilian life a try."

"You'd hate it."

"You might be surprised. I'm almost laid back these days."

She snorted. "How is Ashara?"

"You'd know better than me, I'd think. We don't talk much any more."

For a moment there was a comfortable silence.

"You're not here under any sort of false pretenses, are you?"

"Not unless I've tragically misread this situation, and you've something sinister in mind."

"I never plan anything sinister, it just happens."

"Like anybody could believe that."

She laughed. "You're growing so suspicious. No, it's only that I'm a little at a loss - all I've been told to do is show up."

"Well, apparently it's a date. And I'm a little out of practice, but I believe I'm supposed to charm you, sweep you off your feet as much as you'll let me, and otherwise show you a good time. It's all pre-planned, your brother even texted me an itinerary, a list of bookings…"

"Let me see that." She said eagerly, then snatched away his phone before he could offer it to her. "Hmmm. He's certainly gone to a lot of trouble, hasn't he? He always did know what I like. Unfortunately, he seems to have stolen most of his ideas from watching montages in romantic comedies. Well, I won't protest - I'll go through with it. It'll be fun, if nothing else, and the two of us do need the chance to catch up. At least if you are game?"

"It's not really a chore, escorting you around all day."

"Oh, you say that now, but up until now you've only known me as a friend. Apparently I'm high maintenance. Also, intimidating." She gave him a smoky look. "Though I'm sure you can keep up with me for a few days. There's a wedding to attend, afterall. Arianne's, if you can believe it." She smiled fondly. "And there is something so magical about weddings, I've always found."

"You must be very proud."

"Of course I am. What an odd thing to say."

"So it's a date?"

"People who date me tend to know. Let's do this as friends, and if we start to enjoy ourselves we can change our minds. Less pressure that way." 

 

\+ + + + +

 

It was sunset when they left the theatre. If Arthur Dayne had been asked if he considered himself the demographic likely to enjoy a play written by an up-and-coming young talent satirizing capitalism, Arthur would have had to say no. The theatre wasn't something he had any involvement with, it was something he wouldn't have expected to see, much less form an opinion on.

"Well, that was fun." Elia said at last. Truth be told, he'd spent more time watching her then the play, waiting for her to explain the meta-narrative and complex farcical twists into something he could understand. After a while, he'd stopped trying. There was no sense in listening to the words, instead he listened to it like he would music. Just let it flow in and out.

“I had fun. Lots, actually." Arthur Dayne agreed. He sounded almost surprised. "What now?"

"Well, I hope you'll escort me to the wedding. It's a magical time, anything can happen. After that, I'm going to be on a flight back to Europe, where they know how to take care of royalty.” She winked. “Look me up. Might be nice to give this another try. You know. For real.” She winked. "We missed out on old-times sake, but if you ever feel like new-times sake, get a hold of me."

Arthur Dayne was not a man given to spontaneity. He planned everything, he always had. Which is why he took himself by surprise as much as he took her by surprise when he stepped up close, leaned down, cupped her chin and drew her toward him until their mouths all but touched. He could feel her breath, warm and shallow, on his neck, and when he kissed her, she responded with slow but genuine passion.

Already the kiss was beginning to change; it was hotter now, more demanding. Her body pressed against him. His breathing had quickened considerably; hers came swift and shallow.

"Or we could act now."


	2. Jealousy /"Tell me this when you’re sober.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. Just a short chapter, written in a bit of a hurry.

"I don't remember the last time I hit the bottle so hard. How bad was it?" He asked, when he trusted himself to. Shit, he was a mess. His face - partially obscured by a three-day growth of beard - stung, and was unnaturally flushed and splotchy, and he stank of vomit and raw liquor'. Robert knew he drank more when he was maudlin. It was the way he was made. But he grew more prone to melancholy every year. The darkest moods drove him to drink, and drink made them worse. Despite his best efforts, sorrows could not be drowned. They swam.

"Worse than I've seen you in a long time. Worse then some of them have ever seen you."

"Did I…" He trailed off. Even drunk, his hands remembered everything - the blows, the nights on the ground, the freezing cold, the gauntlets that didn't quite fit. They pained him all the time, his hands, awake or asleep. He raised them, looking at the thick fingers. Two on his left hand were crooked from old breaks. His palms were thick slabs of callus. A knuckle had been pushed back in on his left hand, from some blow he did not remember, so that it lay smooth. They were warriors hands and they ached, most days, and when he clenched his right into a fist he always heard an audible clink. "You didn't get violent, though you came close, a time or two." She reassured him. "Of course, Edmure…"

Robert hung his head a little, and sighed.

"Robert, anyone who's known you any time at all, knows better than to take anything you say seriously." She handed him a goblet. That wasn't far from the truth, most expected rough humour from him - if they expected anything at all. And all the miracles of the Seven save him, but all too often it was all he had to give.

"What is this?"

"Carrot juice, with ginger. Good for hangovers."

"I'm not entirely forgiven." He grimaced, then swallowed a mouthful.

"What set you off?"

"Honestly, I don't remember. I don't remember most of the night - that's why they call it Black-out drunk." And that was true. There were parts of his memory that were apart, that he locked up from himself. Robert understood that there was a time he had run wild after Ashford. He had never spoken of those months, not to Ned, not to Jon, not to Lyanna. More that a few of those events were just gone from his memory, only resurfacing in his dreams, as if some other man had lived them and not him.

And yet he found himself dwelling more and more on those violent months. He had not washed the blood off his armour, he recalled. It had flaked away in the end, like paint. He shook his head at that, lost in the fumes of wine and memory. His family didn't, couldn't understand that. It was better that way.

"I've never regretted it, you know."

"What?"

"You."

"You are infuriating, you know that?"

He took her hand. "Not for a moment."


	3. Love Letters/“I thought you were a dream come true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an AU, just because. Westeros went through an industrial revolution, the war is fought with cannons and muskets and rifles as well as horses, rather than with swords and armour. It's still just as anachronistic as ever, of course - otherwise it wouldn't be any fun - but in a very different way.  
> It's also cowardly, since I didn't even attempt Jeyne's perspective - I'm not even convinced I managed to be tonally consistent. I blame stopping and starting. Still, it's all a learning experience.

Dearest Jeyne,

I have not had an opportunity to write until now, but I reassure you that I write to you in fine health and sound mind - though true to predictions, General Tywin Lannister has proved adept in the defence of his lands. The remainder of the month has been spent in strengthening the line we hold for now. By now we are as strong against him as he is against us. I had known General Lannister before the war, and had served under him briefly, but I do not suppose, owing to the differences in our age and rank, that he would remember me; while I would more naturally remember him distinctly, because he was the chief of staff at the time. How long ago now those years seem, and I can only speculate how we left them behind to arrive here. Doubtless that you, given your station and relative closeness to Casterly Rock, recall him more clearly.

What are my father's feelings about this offensive I do not know. I have spent much time at the headquarters, the two of us closeted together, but he does not confide in me, he does not confide in anybody, and as a man of much dignity, it is impossible for my observation to detect what his feelings may be. I fear he is drinking once again, though I have seen no compelling evidence to aid this conclusion. There is nobody who I can confide my fears to save my half-brother Jon, who is as powerless as I myself to do more than watch.

Our operations may be summed up in a few words - though I fear to confide too much detail to my hand. I have for almost an entire year to have an expedition sent against Crakehall when its possession by us would have been of great advantage. It finally cost lives to take it when its possession was of no importance, and when, if left alone, it would within a few days have fallen into our hands without any bloodshed whatsoever. Crakehall was an important point to the enemy by reason of it's railway connections as a depot for supplies and as a manufactory, and was entrenched and fortified as a consequence. Lord Crakehall proved an energetic officer, but had principally conscripts to rely on, mostly old men and boys. Crakehall fell on the 2nd of April, with a large number of prisoners and a large quantity of war material, machine shops and the like to be disposed of by the victors. That said, the war is going badly. But then, the war is always going badly.

In truth, I find it difficult to centre myself - I seem thrust from one extreme of emotion to another. Often I find myself dwelling upon you. Though our time together was brief, it was the closest to peace I have known in longer than I care to dwell upon, and even after so long apart the thought of you is a source of immense comfort. In truth, In fact, I am embarrassed to admit that I have privately come to regard you - or at least your opinion of me - as something between an inspiration and a conscience. I find myself drawing upon you when pressed by adversity or peril, moral and physical alike - though I fear that my musings concerning you would produce a most inexact portrait to anyone not acquainted.

You were like a dream when we met, and all too often you feel like a dream now. I carry you with me at all times, and think of you constantly. In these tragic times there is little room for love-play and kind words. Love must be deep and strong, manifesting itself in our actions. Seek no courtly words from me, Jeyne, for my tongue has grown too heavy to sing them, but remember earlier nights, how we sat at the cliffs watching the sun rise sharing a bottle of wine, and you traced our dreams in the sand. Of how we dangled our feet in the water from the dock and you sang those bawdy songs and made me laugh and laugh. And think of those quiet nights, when the only turbulence was our pulse-beats as one.

I am thinking of you, Jeyne. We will be together again.

All my love

Your Robb


	4. Salty Teens AU/“Is that what you’ve been doing? Trying to make me hate you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Harry Potter AU, because only the most hopelessly niche of pairings lack a Harry Potter AU. And it was so much fun to write. I swear. Lyanna and Rhaegar's quest is based on this work here. If you like works in which Lyanna, Elia and Rhaegar team up to explore Hogwarts, then I suspect that this is the only fic you'll ever need: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488808
> 
> It's also far outside my comfort zone, which is the entire purpose of drabbles, so on that alone I think it might be my favourite of these stories.

It was going to be a beautiful day. Somehow he could tell. The perfect sort of day, crisp and clear, not too warm and not to cool. The perfect day for flying. And yet it was hard to be as enthusiastic about Quiddich as he normally would be. It just wasn't the same, Robert thought as he looked at the tattered remains of what had only last year been the team that had effortlessly soared from victory to victory over the course of a six year long undefeated streak - if admittedly one which had come perilously close to being broken the year before. And now what little remained of it was his responsibility, since Brandon had graduated and Professor Lannister had made him Quiddich captain. Somehow it felt less like an honour than it had when the big tawny owl had dropped off the badge over the summer holidays.

All he could see was the empty places in the line-up- if you could even call it that - which gaped like cavities where the attrition of graduation, a nervous breakdown, a teenage pregnancy, and most insidious of all a desire to cut extraneous extracurricular activities in order to focus on classwork had ground away at them. As far as the team went, the sole face looking back at him didn't seem much happier at the state of affairs than he did. There was a limit to how brave a face you could put on two members of a team of seven.

It was half an hour until Tryouts started, seven thirty, Saturday morning, and he had booked the pitch for the day, and posted notification on the Gryffindor Common Room notice-board. He'd done all the preparation, in other words, and now, while the rest of the school was getting breakfast he had to set-up. Frustrated, annoyed, and wishing he'd stayed in bed that morning, Robert tried to find a positive frame of mind. It didn't work.

"He's not coming back, then?" Robert asked, a hopeful note creeping into his voice unwelcome as his gaze fell naturally onto an empty space under the hoops where Ned ought to be standing.

His fellow Beater, the only other person actually on the pitch at breakfast time on a Tuesday shook his head. It made him look like a bit like a dissatisfied bear. "Maybe next year."

Robert let out a disgusted grunt. It wasn't that pleading with his best friend was beneath his dignity or anything - it was that he'd already tried and already got the same response. Ned had dropped out to focus on his studies, his new responsibilities as prefect, and to devote more time to Catelyn, the Ravenclaw (also a prefect) that he was seeing. Prefects got a pretty bad deal as far as Robert could tell, being expected to shoulder responsibilities and the dislike of the other students in exchange for what really wasn't very much authority - though he supposed that easy access to Hogwarts' only co-ed bathroom and the attendant luxurious facilities was better then sneaking down deserted corridors and hoping not to run into anything that might be the end of you (Hogwarts was a massive place and there were entire floors and corridors where nobody ever went, all sorts of old storerooms and junk-filled workshops that were very rarely as innocent as they appeared) the way the rest of the students had to (he'd always favored the astronomy tower, himself). Objectively, he knew that Ned was making the right decision, he'd made for a reliable Keeper but hardly a brilliant one, and that sixth years needed to prioritize - but he also knew he'd always played better when he had Ned to watch his back, and the thought of playing Quiddich without him was a sensation not unlike slipping from your broom without a softening charm.

"Well, how about Jaime? He's not abandoning us to study as well, is he?" They were almost half a team with Jaime - two Beaters and nothing else was a bad joke waiting for a punchline.

"He's a fifth year. Of course not." Alan scoffed.

"So where is he then?" Robert asked. He'd just assumed that Jaime would be here, the fifth year had a passion for the game equal to Robert's own.

"My guess is, he's doing the same thing he does every year."

"Give me strength." Robert grumbled, rolling his eyes. Of course, Jaime would be trying-out for seeker, the way he did every year. Robert had mocked him for that mercilessly, though it didn't seem as funny now that his was his problem. "Fine, well I suppose it's just you and me setting up then. You go to the supply shed and sign off as many of the school brooms as you can, I'll get the practice balls and the rest of the equipment."

His fellow beater grunted. Alan Fell was a burly seventh year who was taller than him (and not a lot of people could say that) with the girth to go with his size since no amount of exercise seemed to reduce his belly. He was a solid presence, so much so that it seemed ludicrous to imagine him flying, but there was a lot about him that was misleading. His fellow beater looked sullen, and Robert suspected it wasn't just the reduced circumstances of their Quiddich Team. "Tryouts are the worst."

"They really are. Though I don't think there's much chance you and I will win many games without other players." Alan said.

"Now there's a thought." Robert said, managing to grin. “Well, lets try and get some reserves this year as well, so we've got a few people who can take over once you graduate, and I don't need to worry about doing this again next year."

"We don't even have a team, and he wants to worry about reserves." Alan Fell grumbled. Robert gave him a pass on the attitude, being the only player he had went a long way towards that. It wasn't hard to figure out the reasons for his particular bad mood - the other Beater felt that his seniority should have meant he got to be Team Captain, but Robert figured he’d get over it. Alan Fell was reliable.

"How many first-year Hufflepuffs do you think will show up?"

"Oh, five or six." Robert replied, already sounding weary. "At least. Well, lets get this over with."

They split up. Robert collected the balls from their usual place in the changing room and took the chance to change pull on his team jersey. It was tight and a little short at the hem, he'd had another growth-spurt over the summer, but he fixed that, at least for the moment, with the application of an enlarging charm, and made a mental note to find a tailor who'd take it out next time he was in Hogsmede. Then he snuck a cigarette, even though he was supposed to be trying to quit, and promised people he didn't want to disappoint that he would. The smoke burned, but in sort of a good way, and he enjoyed watching the smoke lazily rise. He ground it under his foot when he was done and strode out onto the pitch like he had every reason to be confident.

It was a hard front to keep up with, and in the end he did have to sigh, as this years selection of quiddich hopefuls wandered their way onto pitch from the general direction of the castle. There were plenty of them, Quiddich was popular, and they were what was left of the best team in Hogwarts, so there was no shortage of applicants, but none of them seemed to have much to recommend them to him, though he supposed he should give them the chance before he completely gave up on them. With another moment to feel sorry for himself and to wish that Ned was here, he tried to think about his best approach.

He glanced at Alan again. Both boys were geared up, in their off-white trousers (with a red and gold stripe up the outside leg), scarlet and gold robes, long sleeved jerseys (also red); and kneepads, elbowpads, gloves and boots all of the same thick brown leather. Alan shrugged, which Robert took to mean that his fellow Beater had come to the same conclusion.

Well. Start with a demonstration, he supposed.

“Alan, get your bat.” Robert said, opening the old leather case where the balls were kept, passing over the Snitch and the Quaffle to the two jet black Bludgers, both of which were straining against the leather straps holding them inside the box, as if they could sense the presence of so many soft targets. “Come to think of it, get mine as well. Is everyone paying attention?"

He glanced again at the crowd who had come to the pitch in search of Quiddich glory. There were first years nervously clutching a selection of the sad old school brooms, or what passed as school brooms, most of which were scarcely any use for sweeping floors - much less flying. First Years hadn't been allowed to play when he first came to Hogwarts, but in the intervening time that rule had stopped being enforced for some reason or another. There were a few seventh years, towering above the crowd, all looking to pad out their extracurricular activities hoping that it would look good on applications, and everything in between. There were a few responses, lackluster attempts at humor with the occasional affirmation. Well.

He decided to power on. "Now, as you can see, we’re trying out for Chasers, a Keeper and a Seeker. Pretty much a whole team, really. And we'd better get them, or else we will have to forfeit, and Ravenclaw will take the cup this year because they're the best team at the moment." Robert began conversationally. He snapped his wand, and a roll of parchment unrolled hanging in the air. "Well, over my dead body. So, write down your names and what you are trying out for so I can keep you all straight. If you want to try out for multiple positions you can, but if you did that and then make the team you’ll be doing whatever I decide that the team needs. And the team needs you to give your all. Practice is three days a week, and I will push you as hard as you can take. You all got that?"

A few people nodded, a few people agreed, others mumbled or looked at their feet. "Now, Quidditch is easy enough to understand. We need…” Jaime still hadn't moved. Well, whatever. "We'll start with a few exercises to establish the basics of competence. So form into groups of six, or so." This took a while, as in the finest tradition of amateur quidditch they all did their best to form groups that didn't include anyone who was obviously overweight, the weird kid or anyone trembling with nerves. "Now, wait your turn, and when I tell you to mount your brooms and give me one lap around the pitch."

Robert hadn't been expecting much, but what they showed him did not make for inspiring flying. Three of them had to wait, since they hadn't brought broomsticks of their own and the brooms Alan brought had already been divided around. Half of them could not have made it plainer that they'd hardly ever flown before, and barely got airborne. One boy who managed it proved to know how to accelerate but not how to steer and promptly crashed into one of the goal posts. Two crashed into one another, bringing down a third halfway around the pitch. One fourth year tried to mount her broom backwards.

After an hour - far longer than such easy instructions merited, many complaints, several tantrums and a brief bout of hysterics, and more accidents than he had been  prepared to deal with, one involving a crashed Comet Two Sixty that seemed to have spontaneously ignited, another involving several broken teeth, Robert had pared down the fifty or so that had shown up to twenty or so that had some idea what they were doing, or at least might be able to be taught. Alan, at least, had cut the shit, if anything he looked glad this wasn’t his problem. Jaime, however, still seemed determined to be Seeker, and was pointedly ignoring any attempts to engage him in conversation.

Robert next set them some basic flying exercises, which allowed him to remove another eight or so from consideration, who trooped off to join a not inconsiderable number of rejected Quiddich players on the stands, heckling those still in consideration. By now, people with nothing better to do were wandering over to see the spectacle, including Elbert Arryn, captain of the Ravenclaw Quiddich Team, who was a good sport, but not good enough not to smirk, and then conjure himself a bag of popcorn that he made a show of munching. Robert responded with a rude gesture, which only made Elbert grin all the more. By then, they had progressed to throwing golf balls which the players had to do their best to catch. When one of the players actually threw himself off his broom to catch the ball (and had ample reason to be grateful for a quickly cast softening charm), Robert had had enough, and called a break.

Alan joined him at the stands, as Robert lit up his second cigarette, this time making no effort to hide it whatsoever. There weren't any rules about smoking at Hogwarts - most of the teachers didn't even know what cigarettes were, much less that they should be banned as health hazards, but Robert didn't push his luck anyway, if only because the last thing he wanted was younger kids picking up the habit. Then he'd have to quit. "So, do we confer," Alan asked "or what?"

Robert grunted. For a while Robert was quiet, watching the smoke drift lazily into the air. No conversation was necessary, because they were both thinking the same thing, more or less - when it came to tryouts, anyway. They were going terribly. They were down to twelve, who'd test flown adequate, however that left twelve students who weren't up to it. Anyway, that was Robert's opinion - Alan Fell had thought that one or two of them might do (with a lot of training) but Robert remained adamant that they 'didn't fit'. Alan didn't really understand this, to tell the truth, but he left Robert to his foibles. He was going to have to compromise eventually, if he anted to play Quiddich.

"So," Alan started, when he judged the time was right.

"So?"

"So what do you think?"

Robert grunted again.

"I think we should pick a seeker, so we have Jaime to help us pick out the Chasers."

"That's actually not a bad idea. Why have you let me think you were coasting on looks all this time?"

Alan rolled his eyes. "Well, we got three prospective Seekers, not counting Jaime."

Robert frowned. "Right. Who was best?”

“Jaime.”

Robert  rolled his eyes. “Right. Well, then we got three new chasers with nobody to take the lead or show them the ropes. So lets not do that - maybe once the new players know which way to sit on a broom. What were their names again?" He pulled out his wand, and waved over the parchment. Then he blinked. That was a hell of an oversight. How hadn't he noticed?

"Lyanna Stark is trying out?" Now that he thought about it, that tangled dark hair, firm jaw and intense expression couldn't belong to anyone else.

"Are you telling me you didn't you spot your best friends kid sister? Don't you spend half your holidays at their house?"

Robert shrugged his wide shoulders. "I'm not sure, but if I had to have a reason I'm going to say it's on account of all the other things I was trying to keep track of. With the way this lot have been, it's a wonder I can see straight." He thought about it a moment. "Well, she wasn't bad, and she comes from a family of great Quiddich players, and if we get Jaime back where he's supposed to be, I'm more than happy to call it a win. How did she do?"

"She caught three or so. Didn't miss any, but didn't try for a few she could have got, easy."

"Good enough. Let's try her out."

"How do we test Chasers without a Keeper?"

"With difficulty." Robert replied, beginning to feel hopeful now that they had started making progress, that perhaps, at the end of the day, he might have accomplished something.  "But first, we'll test them dodging."

Of course it wasn't easy as that. Robert roared at people complaining of favoritism (which was truer than he would allow himself to admit), and had to threaten one of them with physical harm in order to get him to leave the pitch. Jaime was unhappy, but agreed to resume his usual position with a minimum of simmering resentment - again Robert counted that as a success, and they begun the second phase of the testing. The surprise turned out to be Lyanna, who stormed up to him in a fine prelude to a rage. "Jaime flew better than me."

"Much better." Robert agreed. "It's not fair you get the position. But it's up to me, and I'm not a fair guy."

"I'm not going to take the position I haven't earned."

"'kay." Robert replied, stepping past her and leaving her fuming.

"It's alright. You were next best. And he's a prick, but you can trust his judgement." Jaime was telling her. Robert shook his head. That was, he believed, the closest thing to a compliment Jaime had offered him since he had dated his twin sister a year ago.

"Alright. You can steer your brooms, and stay on them, which is a start. Now lets see how you do at sharper maneuvers. Ready Alan?"

Alan Fell nodded, and Robert hefted his bat. Robert handed Jaime the Quaffle. "Since you're the only one here who knows what he's doing, you can start. Fly to over to one end of the pitch, then cross to the other side, score a goal."

"In my sleep?"

"However you want."

Robert waited for him to mount his broom before he let the first Bludger free. As flush as the Lannisters were Jaime could have afforded anything, of course, and it was no secret that Quiddich was a gentleman's game. Jaime had a classic from the early days of broom manufacturing, a Nimbus 1800, carefully and lovingly restored. It was a hell of a racing broom, a complicated yet powerful beast that took a quick mind to handle, responsive and attentive, interpreting subtle movements and – when handled well, moving like an extension of the body, yet at the same time wild, never tamed or broken. It couldn’t be. The moment Jaime was airborne, the black ball rose high in the air and then pelted straight at for the nearest target - a fourth year named Jale Cafferen in consideration for Keeper. He cringed (and was rejected on those grounds), but Alan stepped in front of him and caught it seemingly effortlessly with his bat.

It was a very specific type of showing off - it was no one-off shot, though he sent the Bludger rocketing exactly where he had intended, just ahead of where Jaime was about to be and forcing the Chaser to do a barrel-roll under his broom, yet done so effortlessly as to show mastery, just as an expert might do some everyday craft so that you’d see their skill. Once a goblin (Robert had vague ambitions to work as a Cursebreaker, and so had taken a summer internship at Gringotts his father had arranged) had told him that any goblin might make one fine work, but that a master, a real one, made one every day just as good. A good beater was a bit like that, and Alan was very good.

Of course, the question was, could any of the people who the demonstration was for tell the difference, Robert thought as Jaime hooked a foot around the bristles and seemed to drop off, before swinging up and back to his seat in an almost unbelievably flashy bit of flying, weaved around the Bludgers returning strike, and put the ball through the middle ring like the toss was nothing. He landed to uproarious applause, befitting a show-off of his caliber.

“You all saw that?" Robert asked rhetorically. "Great. Now you do it too.” He paused a moment, weighing the pros and cons of warning them against flashy dodges, but in the end he figured it might be another useful way of disqualifying people who couldn't handle it. "Lyanna, if you're still on the team, get back to practicing your catching. If not, get out of here." She huffed indignantly, but did as he told her.

He was starting to think there might just be hope when Mitch Grandison flinched away from a Bludger nowhere near him and dropped the Quaffle.

 

+    +    +    +    +

 

It was past dinner time when Robert climbed through the portrait hole carrying his broom, and threw his muddy sweatshirt on a chair. The Gryffindor Common Room crowded that night. Chess matches, gobstones games, intense rounds of exploding snap were taking place. The fire blazed, and everyone was chatting loudly - about completely normal adolescent things.

There was a small desk in the common room, and his Transfiguration Homework was still sitting there, open to the same page it had been over a week ago. Problem 53, half finished on the paper next to it, begged him to come complete it, to finish the assignment and turn it in for partial credit, something, anything. Staring down at the figures on the page, he shook his head, and went back to ignoring it.

"Come on. It can't have been as bad as that."

"We were at the pitch since seven thirty. That's nearly twelve hours, Ned." Robert said, and made a point of rubbing his forehead, far more theatrically then necessary.

"You took a ten minute break early on." Ned replied reasonably.

 

Robert gave him an incredulous look, then chuckled a little as the tension drained out of him. "You know, your sister tried out.” None of his new players had the old brilliance of the team of last year, but he had made peace with that as best as he could. Maybe he could beat them into shape before the first season of the game - they all showed a will, at least.

Ned’s Transfiguration Essay, he noticed, was finished, signed, and ready to be turned in. With no homework remaining, he was keeping Robert company in a touching display of solidarity.

"She told me she was going to. She was practicing all Summer with Benjen."

“She wanted to be a Chaser, but she wound up fitting better as Seeker, and only took a little convincing. She fit pretty well, actually. I don't want to jinx it, but we might end up with a halfway decent team this year.”

"Who's taking over as Keeper?" Ned asked. He didn't sound bitter to think of being replaced, just idly curious. That, more than anything, convinced Robert that Ned, at least, believed that the chapter of his life in which Quiddich was more than an idle amusement was over.

"In the end, we gave it to Marq Grafton. He's not all that talented, but he might shape up." He shot another look at his transfiguration homework, then resolutely turned away. He had better things to do than try and write an essay on vanishing. Slowly, the room emptied as people drifted off to bed. At last Robert stood up. "Come on, lets head down to the kitchens. I feel peckish." Robert said at last.

 

Ned stood up, and they headed towards the portrait-hole, then Ned stopped. Robert turned to ask him why, then heard it himself, a sort of snuffling sound, very faint, that eventually resolved itself into sobbing. Robert would have ignored it, but Ned wasn't blessed with his friends thick skin, and hastened towards it. The source of the noise turned out to be a small blond second year, who was hugging her knees to her chin. She was small, and looked smaller still, and it was such a pathetic sight even the hardest of hearts would have been melted.

"What's the matter?" Ned asked, projecting concern. Robert shook his head, and wondered how his friend did it.

"My…" she made a choking noise. "My Remembrall."

"That's not a thing to get so worked up about." Ned replied. Robert rolled his eyes, exasperated. The second year shook her head.

"Where did you lose it?"

"Didn't lose it. I was showing it to my friends…" she'd recovered enough by now to be able to form largely complete sentences "…and then he shoved me, and snatched it, and then he tossed it into the fire." To illustrate she gestured at the fire, where a sad blob of colourful melted glass testified to the fate of the bauble.

"Who did?" Robert asked.

In answer, she pointed to the chair where Meryn Trant had been formerly sitting.

Robert glanced at his friend, and his eyes narrowed as he slowly smiled. "You know, Ned, I haven't had detention in… ages."

 

+    +    +    +    +

 

"Detention, Baratheon." Profeesor Lannister reprimanded the young wizard standing in the office she was sharing with her husband this year. Joanna Lannister was a handsome woman in her early forties. Slim as a runway model dreamed of being with a fierceness evident in her fine features, Joanna was regal, fashionable, comfortable in herself, and commanding without being domineering. She was also the Head of Gryffindor House, and known for being strict to a fault, which was why Robert was standing in front of her desk with an insincere imitation of remorse.

"Right you are, professor."

"You'll be pleased to know that Meryn Trant suffered no permanent damage."

"None?" He replied, sounding anything but. "Not at all?"

"None. He has been entirely restored."

"And did they fix it, for him?"

"Baratheon." She said, her tone a warning.

"It just seems wrong, somehow. I mean, given the way he was before."

"You told me it was an accident."

"It was. A lucky accident. Fate works itself out in the strangest ways, professor. That's what professor's Melisandre and Thoros say, at least."

Joanna rolled her eyes. "Detention on Friday, Baratheon."

"Right you are, professor." He winked. "You look ravishing tonight, by the way."

"Out of my office, Baratheon."

"If you insist.”

”Baratheon?”

“Yes Professor?”

“That was an excellent vanishing spell. At least you seem to be living up to the magical potential you display in my class.”

Robert grinned over his shoulder.

Ned was waiting outside the door for him. "Detention tomorrow." Robert told him, before he could even ask, starting up the corridor.

"And was it worth it?"

"Sure, fuck him." Robert replied, then paused a moment. "Well, I thought it was at least…"

Ned looked at him.

"…Only I hear they've more or less restored it."

"Pyrcelle is a creep, but he used to be a senior healer at Saint Mungo's. He knows his stuff."

"And after all the trouble I went to vanishing it. That's a difficult spell, you know."

Ned sighed. "Robert, you taught him a lesson. That was what you wanted."

"It just seems like a shame, knowing it's been undone. I did us all a service, you know, and to hear it's already like it never happened."

Ned sighed. But he was clearly doing his best not to laugh. "You know I'll have to turn you in again."

"Our friendship has endured worse. Let's see, he's probably on his way back to the Tower even as we speak, if we take a detour…"

 

+    +    +    +    +

 

The crystal trophy cases glimmered where the moonlight caught them. Cups, shields, plates, and statues winked silver and gold in the darkness. "So what did you do?"

"I was caught trespassing in the Forbidden Forest." Lyanna replied proudly.

"Well, that'd do it, I suppose. I hope you at least had a good reason."

"Not particularly, actually." Lyanna admitted, a touch defensively.

Elia shrugged, as though to say it was all relative, and if she wanted to endanger her life that was her business. Elia could say volumes with her shrugs. "Well take a rag. You're supposed to be doing this without magic, but I'm working on my ancient runes essay, so I won't notice if you enchant a rag or four so long as you keep them out of my sight."  
  
Lyanna was far too clever to question such unexpected good fortune. The spellwork was a challenge for a third year, as was getting the rags not to exhibit too much enthusiasm, but before too long she had the rags industriously wiping away at the trophies. Ten minutes later, there was far more talk than work on essays or polishing. "I've been meaning to ask you…"

Elia shrugged. She was polishing an apple on her sleeve, her parchment scattered on the floor around her in a semblance of order. "We're bickering more than we used to, but that's just stress." She replied. Lyanna looked at the ground a moment. She felt an uncommitted sort of guilt, which was stupid since she had no reason to feel guilty at all. "You're not… jealous…"

"No." Elia replied, shaking her head. "No, I'm quite happy for my boyfriend to spend time with his friends."

Lyanna wanted to protest that what they were doing together was important, not just socialising, but she knew Elia wouldn't agree. "Because I'd understand if you were…"

Elia sighed. "Look, no offence," she began, a little sharply "but you're thirteen and he's seventeen, and the two of you have nothing in common - there's not a lot to be jealous about, except that you're spending a lot of time together. And anyway, Rhaegar and I have a whole lot of problems that have nothing to do with you, or this ongoing obsession of his." She replied.

Lyanna sighed. "He's been different lately."

"I noticed as well."

"And I want to help him. But he won't talk to me about it. There's something off about him, lately. He's been looking pale, and moody and antisocial - not just me, his friends have noticed it as well. And he keeps starting arguments, and then storming off in the middle of them."

Elia patted the younger girl's arm affectionately. "Well, I didn't plan on announcing this so soon, but I suppose I have to now. Lyanna, Rhaegar's pregnant."

Lyanna tried not to laugh, but failed, and found herself giggling. "This is serious, Elia."

"I've known Rhaegar a long time. He needs to be doing something he feels is important, or else he gets like this, starts to feel trapped. He just needs space."

"Well, I'm here." Robert announced, as he stepped into the trophy room.

"You're late."

"Are you going to tell professor Lannister?" Robert replied, raising an eyebrow.

"No."

"Elia, you're a credit to your office. If we lived in a more enlightened, civilised time, they'd give you a trophy."

"They have - though not from not from my refusal to turn snitch. Take extra care scrubbing it. And no magic."

"Of course. And how are you, my Seeker?" 

"It should be Jaime. Jaime flew better, he deserved the place."

"But alas, it never will. He's made peace with it. And soon, you will as well. Besides, you'll be a better Seeker than him, trust me on that."

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Being nice."

"You'd rather the opposite? I can do the opposite."

"I'd prefer you to be consistent."

"Now that's unfair."

Lyanna scoffed, and moved away from him. But there was only so much trophy space, and soon he caught up to her.

"What did you do?" She asked.

"Meryn Trant was picking on someone. One of the Lannisters, I couldn't tell you which one. So I vanished his clothing. And - as a courtesy - a part of him he'd probably prefer not to be on display." He stopped polishing for a moment in order to make a suggestive gesture. "There's this muggle toy, it's called a Ken Doll. It's like a person scaled down, but smooth as the bonnet of a Ferrari in a key location."

Lyanna made a choking sound. "And you got a detention for that?"

"Yeah." Robert paused. "The first time, anyway."

Lyanna spluttered. "The first…"

"Well, you know how it is with accidents. They just keep happening. And now I got a months worth of detentions."

Elia checked her own laughter. "That's horrible. Really funny. But horrible."

"Eh, fuck him, it's Meryn Trant."

"Why did you make me Seeker?"

"Because I need at least one good Chaser, and I figured if I got you playing Ned might come back." Robert replied, in total honesty.

Lyanna's face went very red.

"Well, I think we're done here." Robert said, standing up. "Should I start at the next cabinet? Or help you with your homework, maybe?"

"Take Five. Better yet, head down to the kitchens, and come back with snacks. You know how to get into the kitchens?"

Robert snorted, and walked out.

"I think I hate him." Lyanna told Elia.

Elia sighed. "You know this is what I always try to tell you. You don't have to win every single conversation."

"I'm just…"

"You have to learn to let things go."

Lyanna scowled. "But winning is so nice."  
  
"That's what you did. You wanted to play Quiddich, and now you are."

Lyanna pouted a little. She wasn't designed for pouting, so the result was interesting, to say the least. "But I wanted to earn it."

"If Robert took School Work a fraction of as seriously as he took Quiddich, he'd become Minister for Magic the second he graduates. If you're on his team, he must have a reason."

Robert returned, with leftovers, which they spread out into an impromptu picnic. By this time, any pretence of detention was forgotten. "Why are you always such a jerk?"

"Always might be overstating it."

"So mean, and dismissive, and quick to put people down. Are you trying to make people hate you?"

Robert winked. "Tell me if you figure that out."

Almost exactly a week later, at the last moment, Lyanna stood up in the middle of class and put a chair through a window. That night she showed up for Robert's next detention in the same predicament, ready to continue their argument.


	5. Arranged Marriage/“I wouldn’t change a thing about you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little late, thanks to technical malfunctions. This is a very unusual pairing, for some reason.

He had never imagined this day, he'd given up all chance of it long before he'd known what he was giving up - but if he had, it would not have been like this. He never knew what to expect with her since he'd met her, and so perhaps this shouldn't have surprised him either, yet, somehow, it had. "Who comes before the Old Gods?" He is asked, the voice seeming one with the rustling wind through the branches of the trees.

They are standing together in the Godswood with the moonlight high above and a ring of torches. There was gold at her wrists and at her throat, and he has nothing save a ragged cloak that she had fixed, and there are flowers woven into her hair and around their feet. There was no parade of septons, no relatives, nobody but the two of them, and just one old hermit who lived alone in the woods and who men said was a holy man, a smiling old man in a old and coarse robe and a sheepskin, with bare feet in the snow. The cell he had built on the edge of the Godswood was the only building to be seen, resembling nothing so much as a straw beehive, except that it was a little larger and made of stone. It had only one opening through which you would have had to crawl in order to enter.

“I do, Dalla, owned only by the Gods,” she says, uttering the words slowly. “A woman grown and flowered. Who comes to claim her?”

“I do,” he says, “Mance Rayder, neither one thing, or the other, simply myself.”

The dark eyes of the heart tree seemed, for a moment, to see him, but it is just a trick of the light.

“I take this man,” Dalla says, and they kneel down at the foot of the heart tree, hands clasped.

That was all. There was no betrothal contract, no formal prayers, no exchange of lands or elaborate gifts, just the two cloaks, just the linking of hands tied together, joining two people for a year and a day, and at the end, the long, lingering kiss. 

It was not a typical wedding. 

"No longer?" He had asked, unable to keep himself from looking scandalised. Marriage was forever, everyone knew that – grumbled about it, jested about it, accepted it.

"Only if we wish it," she had replied. "After that, it is a marriage of hearts, not of laws. If we cease to love, it ends." 

His mixed feelings must have shown because she laughed again, and shook her head. "Love prefers to be free, Mance. Now kiss me again." 

"I'll never understand you." He says. "But I wouldn't change a thing about you." 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashes // Snowflakes

Tywin’s quarters at the highest room of the Hand Tower were spartan, a lot more plain and functional then she would have imagined. There was a fire burning merrily in a grate, a window through which he could overlook the city when he wished, and the room’s sole inhabitant, a fully grown Pigeott, a dark golden brown with the dusting of lighter colour that marked a fully mature bird, comfortable on it’s specially reinforced perch by the window.

“Maybe a little too fully mature, eh?” She said to the bird, which turned its hooded head to the sound of her voice, opened his beak, and called “Eeeoott!” in a voice loud enough to command armies. It took a lot of interaction before you got a sense for Pokemon, and the bird was unfamiliar, but she got the sense that it was a question.

The bird’s jesses were entirely without ornament where Joanna -who had been brought up with rich and valuable birds, would have expected to see embroidery and gold leaf at the very least, certainly not plain leather. This was a bird worth -

\- worth the whole value of the contents of her jewellery box, which was worth quite a bit.

The Pigeott was the size of her entire upper body, larger than any bird her father – she sneered internally at the thought of the man – had ever owned. “Eeeoott!” the bird screamed arrestingly. “Pidgeeeoott!”

Joanna crossed her arms. Not for any emotional reason, just to get them out of the way before she did something reckless and impulsive. Only a fool got close to someone else’s bird – especially when that bird was big enough to eat the fool – but her fingers itched to handle it, to feel its weight on her fist. Could she even fly such a bird? She didn’t know - but she wanted to try.

To distract herself, she made her way over to the window, looking down on the city below. A fleeting morning rainstorm had freshened the air a little, but already the scent of refuse, burnt fat and rotting fish once again had become noisome.

She found herself looking at the bird again, and was on the cusp of doing something foolish, when the door opened, and he stepped in. He’d already divested himself of his cloak and gloves, but he’d been riding with the king

A modest woman looked down in this world - even the queen was weak. She is expected to keep her eyes on her slippers; to speak only when spoken to. And a supplicant could afford less pride then a woman, a supplicant bows low and stretches out a pleading hand. But that, she knew, would gain little ground with this man.

He is blond haired, green-eyed, with a tanned face, stern as a judge and as bleak and pitiless as the slopes of the seven hells, yet not without a certain charm in spite of the sternness. Bards and minstrels praised the young king and his looks, though in truth he had a narrow face and a rather weak chin (likely why he was trying to grow a beard), but Tywin looked twice the king he did. He acted the part too, this man was ascendant. His men were in every great house in the land now, and every profitable business or place or tax is was his gift, to give or take away as he saw fit. Yet this has not made him any softer. The opposite, if anything.

Only months ago, some lesser noble from the outer reaches of the Westerlands had taken it upon himself to travel to the King’s Court to petition Tywin Lannister for a loan, to give him some chance of making back what he already owed. The Lord Paramount had shaken his head dismissively and told him to get on his knees and beg. When the noble did as he was told Tywin Lannister had shaken his head again, and suggested that he might as well kiss the dirt at his feet for all the respect he had for a man who would beg at the feet of another. Instead of aid, Tywin had disenfranchised the noble, allowing him to leave King’s Landing with the shirt on his back and nothing more, no shoes, no trousers, no cloak to guard against the elements, and promised to find someone he could give the man’s estate to, so that he could rule in his stead. “A man should be able to care for his own, not prostrate himself at the feet of strangers and beg for mercy. It is a lesson you would all do well to learn.” And the king had laughed, and agreed that they could all learn a thing from his friend. That had been his judgement and the ramifications of it were still playing out to this day. Joana had learned from that mistake, and had no intention of repeating it. She stood tall, sinking down into a curtsey but gazing up at him, meeting his eyes.

“I need your help,” she begins. She hesitates, then decides to be entirely candid. “You know my situation?”

“My condolences for the death of your father.” He replied.

“I cannot obtain my dowry lands nor my jointure, now I am orphaned.” She stumbles a little in the face of his cold interest. “I have nothing to live on.”

Tywin simply stared coolly at her. “Once you marry…”

“I don’t have any intention of doing that right now.” She replied. "Certainly not after being dismissed from the Queens service."

Her suspicion that he'd never spared her a thought before grew when he blinked, and gave her a probing look. "Did her majesty detect some hint of a scandal."

Joanna considered herself worldly, but she couldn't hold his calculating gaze. Still, she would not betray her ladies trust, desperate as she was, even if that was not extended to her. "Her intentions were preventative in nature."

He raises an eyebrow. His gaze was demeaning, making her feel like an ignorant peasant. A big cat pads through the doorway behind him, rolling a lazy eye over to her, the cat’s intelligent green eyes meeting Joana’s for a moment. It tilted it’s head quizzically, glanced at Tywin, then moved over to the rug before the fire, stretched, and lay down, resting it’s head on it’s paws.

“Take a seat.” He said, indicating the chairs by the fire with a wave of his arm. His tone made it clear that this was an instruction, not a courtesy.

She sat. The big cat, deciding she was interested after all it got to it’s feet gracefully and padded slowly over to her, sniffed her foot and her hand, then hopped into her lap and rubbed her head into Joana’s arm to mark this new acquaintance with her scent.

While she was distracted, Tywin crossed the room and sat down beside his desk, pouring himself.a goblet of something in the decanter, and taking a thoughtful swallow. "Then there is little for us to talk about." He said. But he didn't dismiss her.

Pyroars were common enough in the Westerlands. Plenty of smallfolk had them as well as nobles, dangerous as they were they were good for a lot more than just fighting, and they were clever and followed instructions. Of course, they weren’t hard workers like arcanines (which could do the work of thirty men), but they ate a lot less and they didn’t get territorial, at least to the extent that the big dogs did. Actually they worked together pretty well.

But she’d never seen one like this before. It seemed to shimmer, even to glow, the light from the open window reflecting off it’s lustrous coat like the facets of a gemstone. It was a beautiful animal, sleek and strong, without blemishes or scars despite clearly having fought plenty of times before.

She stroked the pyroar’s beautiful silky fur while she waited for him to continue, just behind the ears the way her Persian Sekhmet and her liepard Stelmaria liked, and it closed it’s eyes and pushed against her hand insistently. She didn’t know if Pyroars purred, the way Persians did - anyway, that was an intimate thing that they usually only did with their trainers. But she growled. A soft, low Rrr-Rrr-Rrr-Rrr, like a small engine trying to turn over.

“She likes you. Well, she’s an excellent judge of character, so I consider that the highest possible recommendation.” Tywin said. There was no change about him, he looked as hard and unsmiling as ever, yet she sensed a general feeling of amusement about him nonetheless - or at least, she felt like she did.

“Does she have a name?”

“No.” Tywin replied, his teeth flashing for a moment. “I prefer to treat my Pokémon with practicality. It is an arrangement from which we both benefit, nothing more. They are useful, but that is the extent of our relationship, and it is overly romantic to name them, just as it is is pretentious to name horses unless you are keeping a breeding book. Excessive, one might even say.”

Joana didn’t like the look he gave her, or his eloquent curl of the lips that could almost be mistaken for a smile, or the slightly self-satisfied, smug tone in his voice when he asked or answered questions. “However, she is every bit the judge of character I said she was, and has a real knack for sniffing out liars. Which is why she is here - to keep things honest. She can’t abide falsehood, and if you try to deceive me, she’ll know. And she’ll stop being friendly.”

Suddenly Joana felt a lot less comfortable.

"Now, you have nothing to live on except the charity of your friends, and you refuse to find yourself a husband. I imagine you are here to renegotiate the terms of your loan?"

“Yes. In light of my circumstances, I request that it be extended for another year.” She said, a little distracted. She was a lot less comfortable than she had thought, somehow he’d manoeuvred her entirely on the back foot, and to make matters more uncomfortable the unnamed Pyroar had found a small scar on her forearm that, to it’s sensibility, must have seemed like matted fur, and now she was patiently trying to groom it by licking the small area repeatedly with her rough tongue. And it tickled. “For the love my father bore you.”

She slowly rotated her arm so the Pokemon would lick a different spot, but it was wise to her. It had mothered many cubs more stubborn than Joanna and she knew that trick. The pyroar took the arm gently between its teeth, turned it back where it had been, and continued licking the offending scar.

"Your father borrowed a little over a thousand dragons from my father." Tywin said. "And at very generous terms, I might add."

“My father was your loyal subject to the end. He provided men when you asked, he fought by your side against Maelys the Monstrous, and he borrowed only to make necessary changes to his lands.” That was laying it on a bit thick, perhaps, but her position was weak enough without letting him poke holes in it with impunity.

“Yes, I can see the necessary purchases.” He said, getting to his feet again, and crossing the room, until he was close.

“Tourmalines.” Tywin leant down, so there faces were only two feet apart, his fingers gently touched her earring, and her ear as well. “Pretty, but only tourmalines. I think I’ll give you emeralds to wear. A collar of them, which flash like your eyes in the light.”

“Oh?” She looked him over boldly. “Well, if it’s all the same to you, I think I shall have the emeralds in advance. Because doubtless your Pokemon aren’t the only things you view in terms… how did you put it? Practicality, Lord Lannister? Doubtless after an exciting night you would think it overly romantic to remember my name. Woman, I think, would be enough for you, anything else, would be excessive.”

To her astonishment, Tywin actually smiled. For a moment, he looked amused, then his face was the same as ever. Still, there was no mistaking it. His renowned composure had shown a crack. “Have dinner with me tonight.” He suggested. “And we’ll renegotiate the terms of the loan to something as favourable as you want.”

"Just dinner?" She pressed.

"You intrigue me." He replied. "And you're correct, it'd be a waste to marry you off too quickly."

She paused. For a moment, her mind fluttered back to a similar proposal the King had made, one day after he’d been fighting with his sister. Then she took a deep breath, and looked him in his green eyes, flecked with traces of gold. “I trust that your intentions are honourable, however I’m mindful of my reputation, and I’m sure you are as well. So you have no issue with me bringing a chaperone?”

“Of course not.” Tywin replied.


	7. Chapter 7

The day had dawned, and the big, bearded northerners who had taken the city only a week before herded men and women to the thoroughfare, many of who needed very little encouragement. Elia knew she should have been frightened, but she was too exhausted to care anymore. For over a year now, she’d been reduced to a spectator in her own life, scarcely even a ghost inhabiting the castle. She’d been a figure of scorn, or of pity.  
Perhaps half of the citizens of the city had only the vaguest idea of why they were there - if they had any idea at all. All they knew was that the drink was supplied in plentiful quantities and the occupying Northerners who’d marched in a week or two ago didn’t seem to mind that they took advantage of it. But there were many others who knew exactly what they were witnessing. Robert Baratheon. The Demon of The Trident. The Man Who Would Be King.  
Children were shoved by their parents to the front of the teeming crowds. Normally placid men pushed and gouged their way to get a better view. And when the procession came, it was no disappointment. Knights, resplendent in glittering armour, headed the cavalcade. Behind them, ranks of soldiers marched in full regalia. Most had never been so finely kitted out and were determined to make the most of it. The younger men’s chins were laced with cuts where their shaving had been too vigorous, and the older ones had their facial hair arranged into ever more outlandish configurations. Each infantryman was cheered wildly by the crowd, even those who had no idea what they were celebrating. Flowers were strewn at their feet and kisses blown from maidens leaning from balconies. It didn’t matter that the flowers were wilted and dead and that the ‘maidens’ generally charged upwards of six stags for their time. Appearances, after-all, had to be maintained.  
How did it come to this? She had asked herself that time and again, and come no closer to answering it.  
But of course, it had. One day at a time, it had come to this. She’d seen it happening, worn away, robbed of feeling. She thought of her son, and her daughter, the last obstacles between this man who was being cheered, the same crowd that had cheered just as loudly for her husband as he rode away to kill this man, and she felt very afraid.  
The cheering grew even louder, as the people yelled themselves hoarse for their conqueror as he rode sedately between the baying mob. He was wearing armour made of what looked like pure silver. It probably wasn’t any such thing, but it blazed in the sun nonetheless. He was wearing no helmet, and he grinned and waved and blew kisses to show them he was not haughty, and they loved him for it - they loved him because he looked the part, he was tall and strong and handsome and chivalrous and his eye twinkled with a kind of roguish charm absolutely vital to a popular leader - people tended to be suspicious of virtue. And that was the dangerous difference, Elia thought grimly.  
Jon Arryn might have been the one to declare war, but this was the man the war was being named after, and with good reason. The old falcon had never been the type to strike passion in his followers, to evoke any emotion more intense than admiration. However upright his nature, or perhaps because of it, he had not the force of personality to captivate a city as Robert Baratheon had effortlessly captivated King’s Landing with spectacle and a smile and wave.  
The crowd’s efforts grew more frenzied yet with his appearance. Dried flower petals showered down from the upper stories and a flock of baffled doves lurched into the air, joining the ravens who had been sent to every corner of the realm. The crowd surged forward behind him, eager for more. At the edges of the mob, scuffles broke out. They only grew worse as a number of his men began distributing coins, tossing handfuls of them into the crowd, and people fell onto their hands and knees to scoop them up.  
How ironic it was that the very factor they had all weighed so heavily against Robert should have been turned by him to such telling advantage - his youth. She’d seen him as they all had at first - an appendage of Jon Arryn’s body, an arm to be lopped off before it could strike a lucky blow;. He wasn’t relevant, not really. They had all been so sure that he was just a pawn in a deeper game, that  he was just a piece on the board, a figurehead inherently replaceable, and once Jon Arryn fell, Robert would, must, follow, no more able to survive independently of him than the arm could exist without the body.  
Yet the victory at The Trident had gone to Robert, not to his foster father. As had the bulk of the victories it followed. Win or lose, Robert had ended every battle where he wanted to be, with more men, more momentum, and in a position of more strength.  
All men who counted themselves of noble blood studied the arts of war from early boyhood; it followed that some men would prove to be more apt pupils than others. But it was ill luck that Robert had shown himself to be such a man, one with a natural affinity for command and the ways of war. Yet what disturbed Elia the most about the young Stormlord was that he was seducer as well as soldier. There were others who could have won his battles, but now, now he was winning King’s Landing even as she watched with his smile rather than his sword - as Jon Arryn could never have done. Robert Baratheon was proving as skilled in the dubious manoeuvres of rabble-rousing as he was with the hammer he’d used to kill her husband.  
He dismounted, bowed to the men, then walked up to the Red Keep. Six score Northerners parted for him, then closed behind him. On the steps, the Lord , the various Guildmasters and more wealthy merchants were waiting - determined to be the first to offer aliegence.  
Elia took a deep breath. She gathered the tattered remnants of her poise and royal dignity. Then she descended to the Small Council Chambers.

\+ + + + +

“Princess.” Robert said, already waiting for her, tall, dark and handsome, seated behind the table spread with papers, with his commanders all clustered around. He did not look like a man who has just fought a bloody battle, killed some of the greatest warriors alive with his own two hands, and then led a desperate forced march to another battle to the death. He looked full of life, tireless. The reports claimed he'd been injured, if so he'd made a remarkable recovery. He got to his feet and inclined his head, in a mockery of a bow. “Your husband fought valiantly.” He told her.  
“Did he?” She found herself asking vaguely.  
She would have had to have been blind to miss the gleam of triumph in Robert’s eyes, as he gently shook his head. “No. I had thought to spare your feelings, but honestly he fought like my youngest brother, who is not yet ten, and I fear will never make much of a warrior. But it was over quickly, and he didn’t suffer much.”  
“Oh.” If he meant to hurt her, and she thinks perhaps that he did, he missed the mark there. She thought that she still loved her husband, despite everything, even now. Yet she felt nothing. Not even for her children who will never know their father now. Not even for herself. It’s no longer in her to mourn Rhaegar. She is dry, she hasn’t even tears for herself.  
“Is that all you have to say?” He sounded almost disappointed.  
“And what would you like to hear? Should I wail, and claw at my breast? Gnash my teeth? Should I beseech the Gods for vengeance?”  
Robert chuckled and shook his head. “Gods aren’t fools, woman” he told her, "why should they fight when men do their killing for them?”  
“My thoughts exactly. My concern is for the living, For my son and daughter. Even for Viserys and Daenerys. I must be far from a saint, for I haven’t the heart to waste what I do mourning Rhaegar, whether it is proper for a wife or not.”  
Robert nodded. “Then we understand each other.” He waved over a servant, and dispatched him to the kitchens for wine. The man didn’t hesitate to obey - this was Robert’s hour, he was ascendant, and in ordering servants who aught to have been hers around he demonstrated it casually. Then he waved away his own men, who departed from the Small Council Chambers, one at a time, without so much as a backwards glance, until they were alone at the table. There was no sign of Edward or Jon Arryn.  
“So since you’re here, and not on the throne, I have to ask. What do you want?“ She asked, not having the patience to dissemble.  
Robert’s grim twitched, and his eyes turned cold and businesslike. “That’s up to you” He replied quietly. “I’ve never made a secret of what I desire, but it’s not our only choice. We could fight some more, of course. If you wish."  
“If I wish?” She was too drained to laugh, but she managed a kind of haughtier, befitting a woman twice a princess - by birth and marriage. “You may wish as you will, but don’t rest it upon me. We” that was to say House Targaryen “yet have all the men of quality. There are those who have not forgotten their loyalties.” Elia replied, but she couldn’t get any conviction into her words. “Who still stand with my son, their rightful king.”  
Robert nodded, letting her finish, then got to his feet, looming above her. Robert spoke excitedly, gesticulating, walking up and down shaking the floor, beating the air with great swirls of his black cloak, but this belied his words. “You do, do you? Well keep them, and much good May they do you! I have an army half mad with hunger, that hasn’t been paid in months. I have an army that has burned half the realm already, and on a single word from me will roast and eat your 'men of quality’ in the ashes of the Red Keep!” He didn’t raise his voice more than a little, and Elia could only blink. Somehow, she got the impression that his anger, though genuine, was in some way calculated, for her benefit rather than his own. That the coarseness of his language, so much in keeping with his appearance, was intended as proof of a rude good faith.  
He wasn’t the brute he acted the part of. He was a thinker, Robert Baratheon, despite his thuggish affectations, his grandiose posturings, and his youth. “If you desire we will, but better if I give you the chance to stop the killing and sit down around the table. Yourself, as all that is left of House Targaryen - all that I have left of House Targaryen, and myself, because this is apparently my rebellion. Not because we no longer possess the strength to destroy each other, simply because talking will mean that no more soldiers kill the commons, burn their houses, kill the children rape their women or sell whole families into slavery.“  
She sighed. “What do you want?”  
“Well, isn’t that the question? Now if it were up to me, I’d declare the war over, now that Rhaegar and Aerys have passed on unlamented. Because I want this over and done with, my brother is starving to death, and I haven't seen the woman I love in almost a year. I’d stay a few days, reunite with my betrothed, see your son crowned, and then put this city behind me and let it watch my horses arse as I ride away and never look back for as long as I live.” He continued, in what was like candour. "I hate this place, and I always have. Sadly, in order to obtain my army, to ensure the loyalty and fidelity of my lords, I was forced to make certain assurances to my subjects. Concessions to get them on my side. Some wanted one thing, others another. Too much to remember, but I had a list drawn up.”  
Elia blinked, slowly. She felt something like feeling for the first time in a long time. These negotiations were merely a form of trade, conducted in a near identical manner. Success was determined by the concessions obtained - something is given, something is lost. That was the way it was supposed to be. But it could hardly be called fair. Robert had an army occupying the city, her children at his mercy (which she sensed was a fragile thing) and his foot upon her throat.  
“This will ruin the Kingdoms.” She said, shocked at the magnitude of what was demanded of her. His allies were to be granted princely title, to be free of taxation for a decade, and the borders had been creatively reinvented, expanded into the lands of those who had fought for her husband. The Stormlands would take a lot of Dorne, and the Reach, the Riverlands likewise, and reparations would be paid to the lords of each of those regions. The Tyrells would lose Highgarden, and in would be awarded to House Florent… she couldn’t keep reading, shocked to speechlessness by the unabashed brazenness of the demands.  
“No.” Robert replied. “War will ruin the kingdoms. This will beggar the crown.”  
“We can’t pay.”  
“You’ll have to find a way to.” He replied, without sympathy. “Or your son will. Or there will be no peace between us, not until the rest of your ragged house hang from gibbets from your own towers, for the sport of your own ravens. Do I make myself clear?”  
"You must understand that they'll never agree…"  
"And you'll have to make your brother, Lord Tyrell and Lord Lannister understand that my brother will want them hanged, for their part in the war, and I'd be happy to see it done. That this is the only compromise which they can live with."  
She choked. “You should have been born a bandit.” She managed at last.  
“It’s but a short step from rebel to bandit.” He folded his arms. “It is the crown that robbed us, many things far more precious then gold and land. Ned's family, my betrothed's freedom, and my honor. Those are things that the crown can never repay, but this is a start. The crown will meet these terms, or else the crown will suffer the consequences. Now, where is Lyanna?”  
It took Elia a moment to reply. She wet her lips, still thinking of the legacy that this man had torn from her son. “You may find her… not as you remember.  
“I’ll be the judge of that.”  
“My husband and she… they were wed.”  
Robert folded his arms. “She said the vows?”  
“Yes.”  
To his credit, Robert didn’t even hesitate. Maybe he had suspected. Maybe that wasn't as important as it had been a lifetime ago, before the war had taken so much. "Then I will marry a widow, if she’ll have me. Where is she?”  
“I don’t know. She slipped away.” Elia paused. “Though… She’d be a fool if she didn’t, Robert.”


	8. Chapter 8

She would be safe here, her uncle had told her, when she’d boarded the ship. It had been a warm day, and all the Court had gathered to the shore to wish her well, as she boarded the ship.

Princesses didn’t cry, that’s what her mother said. But safe? Safe from who? She had wanted to ask. Before her father had died, she’d had no enemies, or at least she hadn’t thought she did. But now, it seemed, enemies were all she had.

Myrcella had been fearful long before she faced death in the straits past the broken Arm of Dorne. She’d been afraid since her father had been killed, since her uncle Jaime had ridden away to war. Even the arrival of her uncle, who always had made her laugh, did not ease her anxiety, for he soon proved himself no different from all the others her mother had warned her against.

But the ship had gotten her here, in the end - though she’d become seasick before they’d even left the harbour, and the lighthouse had receded into the distance. The galley was one of the finest in the fleet, and her mother had explained that it did not become becalmed like naves and busses that relied solely upon sails - intact, it had two banks of oars on each side of the ship, and Myrcella had nodded, and pretended she hadn’t been scared by how low it rode in the water, and no longer worried about where she was going, because she was certain she’d never survive the sea voyage.

During the day, she’d huddled miserably in a corner of the deck, immune even to Rosamund’s attempts to cheer her up, trying to settle her queasy stomach by nibbling on the twice-baked ships biscuits. The nights were by far the worst, and Myrcella dreaded to see the sun sink into the sea behind them. She slept poorly, kept awake by the creaking and groaning of the ship’s timbers, the relentless pounding of the waves against the hull, the snoring of the crew, and the skittering sounds made by mice and rats - unseen in the darkness. Lying awake as the hours dragged by until dawn, scratching flea bites ad blinking back tears as she remembered the peaceful and familiar life that had once been hers.

At first, Pentos had seemed like a paradise after the ship. She fancied that she’d never seen a city as beautiful as Pentos, and was astounded that people could live in such comfort and luxury. The city was set in a fertile plain of olive groves and date palms, it’s size equal to King’s Landing if not larger still. She was impressed by the limestone houses that gleamed in the sun like white doves, by the number of public baths, the orchards of exotic fruit that she’d never tasted; oranges, limes, lemons and pomegranates. But it was the palaces of the magisters that utterly dazzled her, as she gazed at them with eyes which stung from held-back tears and the dust of a six-day journey, ringing the city like a necklace of opulent, shining pearls, not a thought given to fortification or warfare, only comfort.

Ilyrio Mopantis was a power in Pentos, perhaps ‘the’ power, and one of the richest men in all the world - a cheesemonger, according to her uncle, who had dismissed the man just like that. It was hard for her to imagine a merchant commanding such respect - she doubted grandfather would have spat on the man - he was in trade, too fat to ride or fight, and excessively vulgar in his displays of wealth, which grandfather had always said was the mark of a weak man trying to look like something he wasn’t. But Myrcella didn’t think Ilyrio was a weak man. His extensive estate was was situated on the southern slope of the Free City, a mile and a half above the crossing of the Ure and Cover rivers, in a percent which held palaces, temples, gardens, fountains, shrines, a menagerie of exotic animals, and the ruins of an ancient Valerian amphitheatre. Ilyrio’s estate was high above the city, flanked by two sturdy totes. A red marble staircase led to the first floor, which was splendidly decorated with vivid mosaic depictions of hunters, leopards, lions, centaurs and peacocks. Her father had taken her to all sorts of places, when the mood was upon him, and she’d come to the conclusion that nobody in all the world lived as well as Lord Tyrell, but she now knew better.

He might have been a cheesemonger, but his coffers were filled with the finest silks, his chambers lit by lamps of brass and crystal and scented by silver incense burners. He bathed in a tin bathtub big enough even for his ponderous bulk, read books that’s covers were studded with gemstones, his pets were walked through gardens fragrant with late-blooming flowers, shaded by citrus trees and adorned with elegant marble fountains. He even had a table of solid gold, set with silver plate and delicacies like sugar-coated almonds, dates, hazelnuts, melons, figs, pomegranates, oranges, shrimp, and marzipan tortes. Myrcella could not imagine a more luxurious world then the one Ilyrio languorously spent his days.

So it took her by surprise when she realised she hated it, and everything it stood for.

She had not wanted to leave King’s Landing, did not want to leave Tyrion who mother hated but always had a kind word for her, did not want to leave her mother and little brother either. Still less did she want to join the household of the Ilyrio Mopantis, who was grossly fat and wore so much perfume that the fact he still smelled bad (sour, like spoiled meat) was probably some sort of achievement. Myrcella couldn’t speak to anyone - they didn’t speak her language, which meant if she wanted to talk to anyone, it had to be the horrible fat man, and she wasn’t allowed to leave the Estate.

There were times when she wondered if her mother had sent her here, to the end of the world, because she didn’t want her anymore. In a dizzying turn of time, the world as she had known it was forever changed. Her father had died, so quickly she hadn’t come to terms with it before it had happened. The stories had been dramatic in the extreme and so embroidered upon in the telling that fact and fictionhad become inextricably entwined. And then, within months, she was sent across the world to the custody of a man she’d never heard of.

The days in the estate that followed were the loneliest of her life. She was woefully homesick, had no friends (Ilyrio had wasted no time sending Rosamund away), she couldn’t communicate with the servants, and there were no other children.

Determined not to shame herself before these indifferent adversaries, Myrcella applied himself grimly to her studies, passed the morning hours practicing her penmanship, stammering over Valerian verbs, practicing her stitching and familiarising herself with The Government of Kings and Princes.

After supper, she was occasionally ushered into the private solar of the Cheesemonger, with his dark watery eyes (that she thought were blue), his oiled beard, and yellow teeth, to make stilted and ‘courtly’ conversation while he reminisced and kept his eyes on her. And then she retired to the quarters all alone, to struggle silently to swallow the lump of misery that rose relentlessly in her throat each night, that she dared not allow to escape in that most disgraceful of all sounds, a muffled sob. Each night she won her war; each day her battle began anew.

And then, gradually, her life begins to become more bearable. It isn’t hard to put together how this happened. His new ward - he calls himself Griff, but she is sure he’s a nobleman. He must be. 

He is no taller than she is, but he was furiously brave, and though she never let him know it she admired him. He was slight and for some reason he dyed his hair blue (which she teased him for unmercifully), and utterly determined to become a great knight. He would tell her stories of her home, stories about Symon Star-Eyes and the Mirroshield, stories of gallantry and chivalry which he read to her as if they were accounts of real people.

When she asked him about it, he had told her, so seriously that she could not doubt it for as long as she lived; “Princess Baratheon, there is nothing more important in the world than a knight’s honour. I would rather die than be dishonoured.”

They didn’t have real horses over on this part of the sea, but Ilyrio had provided him with a pony, which he (for he’s allowed out) rides as if he were heading for a cavalry charge; he was desperate to grow big and strong enough for a weapon and armour, desperate to. Desperateto grow up, to be able to live up to the impossible ideal of knighthood. Myrcella understood this, but she never told him that – he would have mistaken her sympathy for pity, and would never forgive it.

Some things are better never spoken: it was enough to know that the two of them both dreamed of great things, and that nobody else could have be allowed to guess that they dreamed of greatness.

It is a year, before he asks her to run away with him. He’s tired, he tells her, tired of the lies and pretences, tired of things he only believed because he didn’t know enough to question. He’s ready for something real, with her.

She never told him why she agreed, that she is tired too. Some things are better unspoken.

**Author's Note:**

> So, that was harder than I thought it would be - I missed two prompts entirely, starting writing and not producing anything I wanted to share. Still, I'm glad I did this, it gave me a new appreciation for the difficulty of writing a shorter story, and my own flaws as a writer, as well as areas I can improve. Perhaps I'll try it again some day.


End file.
